------------------------
The Alpine Forest
------------------------

I trail the alpine forest.
Winding through the mountains.

As I crest a mound, fog enveloped the landscape.
Treading carefully down the steep slope.
I have to make it through.

A light? Resting in the middle of the valley?
Deep in the heart of the fog it shines, brighter than any star.

Alluring.
Tempting.

I pause for a moment.
Stepping upon a loose rock.
Hesitation and clumsiness take control.
I go tumbling
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀down
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀down
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀down


Left in a fugue.
Fog is all I can see.

What happened?
Where am I?
... Who am I?

More importantly, where did the light go?



----------------------
The Mighty Oak
----------------------

The mighty oak; strong and tall it stands.
Content with it's water, it's sun, and it's space.

A vine creeps across the ground and the mighty oak takes no notice.
The vine reaches the trunk and spirals up ever so slowly.

It's thorns dig into the bark
It's roots stealing whatever water it can
It's leaves taking some of the sun the mighty oak has claimed

Two vines creep across the ground and the mighty oak takes no notice.

Three vines creep across the ground
Four vines creep
Five vines
Six
Seven

Soon the vines are too much for even the mighty oak to ignore.

The fiendish thorns having torn off large sections of the oak's bark
The shallow roots selfishly keeping any water that may happen to fall
The vast system of leaves and vines bending the oak's branches to the point of snapping


The once mighty oak, reduced to nothing.
The once mighty oak, but a standing vessel for the vines.



--------------------
I Hate the Cold
--------------------

Thermals
A nice cotton shirt
My best sweater
A blanket or two

The cold creeps in
My hands and feet stay frozen
My core refusing to keep the heat

I hate the cold.

The fire is the only thing that can stave it off
It's hard to keep alight
I'm running out of kindling

I don't want to be cold.

A thought flashes through my mind
I reach out to the flame, it hurts
It may do more harm
It may not last long

But I won't be cold.



-------------
Hypocrisy
-------------

The wound takes shape; blood seeps steadily.
Is it fresh or as old as I? Does it matter anymore?
Regardless I know what needs to be done.


Gauze, pressure, and time as I've told many before.
Yet never even made an attempt to try.

Does that make me a hypocrite?


Cry, scream, call for a medic, but that would be too selfish.
Nevertheless telling people to head to the doctor for any mild inconvenience.

Does that make me a hypocrite?


Most importantly love yourself, it isn't your fault, I care for you.
Still can't even stand in front of a mirror without disgusting myself.

Truly a hypocrite of the worst kind...


Blood pools and I merely stand gawking.
The wound eventually takes it's toll, growing colder.

All I manage to think about is that one word, "hypocrite"


------------------------------------
The Ghost In The Machine
------------------------------------

Simply a ghost in the machine.


Moments of lucidity fade in and out, unnoticed.
Tangled wires and disorientating lights, a prison made home.
Through all the static and steel, the muted whispers seeping out.

With labored breathing
The flesh binds and metal shears
It's overwhelming

Put trust into the electronic veil, a degree of separation.
A wish not to be seen nor heard, and yet desire lingers.
Intangible and ethereal, the sickly whispers pouring out.

Surrounded by walls
Flesh, steel, bone, aluminum
Truly no difference


Nothing but a spirit crushed in these cogs.